


Goodbye, Sunshine

by Pastel_Teacups



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M, Post-Season/Series 01, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2551868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastel_Teacups/pseuds/Pastel_Teacups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin Taylor was in a coma for two weeks. </p><p>And then, one day, he wasn't. </p><p>(An AU where Justin didn't wake up from his coma after prom, but instead died.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye, Sunshine

“Justin!” 

The boy who was smiling-is smiling-turns towards him, his bright eyes dimming the moment they catch on the baseball bat in Chris Hobbs’ hand. 

Brian sees it all in slow motion, and he can’t scramble out of the car fast enough before there’s a sickening _crack_ and the sound of Justin’s body hitting the ground. 

He moves as fast as his feet will allow. He feels much slower than he usually is, as if a heavy weight has settled across his shoulders. It’s impossible to breathe, and something in his chest is coiling like a spring and refusing to let go. 

Chris Hobbs looks like he’s readying to take another swing but Brian gets there first, tugging the bat from from his grasp. Hobbs runs like _he’s_ the one being attacked, and it only takes a hit to the groin to send him to the ground and out of commission just a few yards away from Justin’s bloodied form. 

The bat slides out of his hand and though he can’t control his movements he somehow gets to Justin and falls to his knees next to him. 

“No,” he murmurs, and the word escapes him over and over again as he searches for a pulse, a heartbeat, a _breath_.

He doesn’t find much. 

\----

It’s an hour after the ambulance had arrived when Michael finds him in some hallway of the hospital, dropping whatever bag he’s carrying and sitting down beside his friend. 

Brian doesn’t notice him until a hand rests on his shoulder. He doesn’t look at him, too entranced in the wall his opposite to bother. Tears of worry streak across his cheeks, and he still clutches the blood-soaked scarf in his hand with no intent of letting go.

Michael doesn’t say anything, and though Brian’s quietly thankful for the silence, he also loathes it. Needs to break it. 

“They wouldn’t let me in,” He murmurs, a bitter smile coming to his face. But it doesn’t feel like any kind of smile, and he guesses it doesn’t look like one either. “Can you fucking believe that? The kid trails after me for god knows how long and the one time I actually want to see him I can’t-” 

He cuts himself off. Has to, because his voice is breaking and he can’t be broken. Isn’t broken. Not over this. 

 

Over him. 

Michael only nods sympathetically, rubbing his back in the most soothing way possible. 

“Brian,” 

“Don’t.” He interrupts, putting his head into his hands. “Go home, Mikey. Go get on the next plane to Portland so you can be with your doctor and live happily ever after.” 

Michael’s eyebrows knit together, but Brian doesn’t see it. “Are you kidding? I’m not leaving you like this.” 

“I’m a big boy, Michael.” He gets to his feet even though he isn’t sure how long he can stand on his own, saluting Michael with the hand that isn’t clutched around his scarf. “Don’t forget to visit.” 

He turns and walks down the hallway. He can remember, months ago, the way Justin had smiled as they ran down this very hall. 

Brian vaguely wonders if he’ll ever get to see Justin’s bright smile again. 

He shakes his head in some attempt to clear it and pushes out of the stifling hospital. It’s cool outside, and Brian only then realizes that his Jeep is still sitting in the parking lot. 

But he doesn’t want to go back, especially not tonight, and so he decides to walk home.

It isn’t a short walk, but he already feels numb and can’t find it in himself to call for a ride. 

He makes it back alright, and though his feet hurt they don’t quite compare to the rest of him.

\----

“A coma,” Debbie tells him tearfully in the morning, while Brian sits in a very Justin-less diner and drinks coffee that Justin didn’t pour. It’s late, and the rest of the group has gone off to work or life or whatever it is that they do during the daytime when the thumpa-thumpa of Babylon is reduced to a dull, empty black room. 

He doesn’t reply, only rubs a hand over his face and declines Debbie’s offer of food. She huffs off with a despairing look on her face and a shake of her head. 

Brian’s hands shake. 

He dumps too much of something alcoholic into his coffee and prays that it stops. 

\----

Brian visits, every night. 

Nobody knows, and he doesn’t burden anybody with the knowledge. But he sits there, a hand resting gently against Justin’s as he sleeps. He never shifts, never twitches. His face is always obscured by a big oxygen mask, and his head is bandaged. The only thing Brian can ever truly make out is his closed eyes, and his dark eyelashes resting against his cheeks.

They never flutter, or open, as much as Brian inwardly pleads. 

He frequents Babylon even more so than usual, finds anybody willing (and everybody is) and drags them into the back room. 

He’s grown numb, and having sex with strangers doesn’t fill the gaping hole in his chest, somehow.

He takes any pill that’s offered to him, drinks every drink on the menu in some attempt to forget that night. 

He can’t. 

His hands still shake. 

\----

Justin Taylor was in a coma for two and a half weeks. 

And then, one day, he isn’t. 

Brian receives a call from Lindsay, early in the morning just after he’d gotten back home from the hospital. 

“Hey, Linds.” He picks up against his better judgement, finding a bottle of liquor in his fridge and uncapping it. “Why’re you calling me?” 

There’s a tiny, quiet noise that crackles over the line, and then Lindsay’s voice fills the receiver. 

She sounds teary. 

“It’s Justin,” She manages, and Brian just knows. 

His chest crumbles like an ancient building being torn down, and he can’t remember how to breath. “When?” 

“Not an hour ago. Brian-” 

He doesn’t hear the last of her statement because he hangs up the phone, unwilling to hear her condolence as he drops to his knees in a fluid moment of grief and fear. 

It really strikes him then, and he keels over with a strangled shout to the floor which sounds scarily similar to a _no_.

He’d _just_ seen him. He’d just sat down beside the whirring machines and held Justin’s hand and though it wasn’t warm it wasn’t cold and he’d _just seen him._

Brian doesn’t realize that he’s crying until a sob rips through him, and tears slip from his cheeks and onto the hardwood floor. 

Justin couldn’t be dead. There had to be some kind of mistake. He was just there two weeks ago, smiling like he’d won the lottery when really he’d just won Brian. 

He couldn’t be dead. 

Brian isn’t sure how long he stays like that, though it’s long enough to run out of tears and by the time his phone rings again he’s been sobbing dryly for the last eternity and a half. 

He doesn’t answer. Work or someone else he doesn’t care, because whoever it is they’re not going to tell him that Justin’s miraculously come back to life and that he’s asking for Brian. 

He can’t find it in him to move a single muscle until his bones start to ache, and he drags himself to his feet just long enough to lock his door and find a bottle of something to make him forget before he collapses again. 

\----

He doesn’t forget. 

He finds himself sitting in the bed that Justin occupied more often than not, staring blankly at the opposite wall with teary eyes. In one hand is the scarf, his fingers clutched around the still-stained silk. In his other hand sits some hoodie that Justin left behind one morning. It even _smells_ like him, like the rest of the loft and the variety of forgotten clothes within it. Something occurs to him, like a vague detail in a horrible dream. 

Justin left his stuff here because he knew that he would be back. 

He knew that one way or another he would weasel his way back into Brian’s loft, into his bed. 

Into his heart. 

Brian relinquishes the hold on Justin’s hoodie to reach for his bottle and take a long swig. 

He couldn’t have loved the kid.

Justin didn’t deserve Brian’s kind of love.

He gives a shaky sigh, and takes another swig of his bottle. 

\----

Two days later when he finally gets out of bed to do something other than piss he finds forty missed messages and fifty-five calls. 

He doesn’t listen to any of them, only dresses for work and walks to the diner. 

He never did pick up his Jeep. 

When Debbie sees him step in, she wastes no time in smacking him over the head with a menu. 

It hurts more than it should. 

“Jesus, Deb, what the fuck?” Brian demands, and his voice is rough with lack of use. Debbie hardly flinches, a scowl permanently set on her features. 

“How dare you come in here and act like nothing’s wrong? You don’t call, you lock your doors, we all thought something’d happened!” 

“Something did happen,” Brian argues dryly, pouring the remains of his flask into his coffee.

Debbie snatches the coffee cup away and sets it out of Brian’s reach. “That doesn’t excuse your actions. The least you could’ve done is call.” 

“Yeah, well, I didn’t.” Brian replies, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can I have my coffee back now?” 

She gives him a new cup, and Brian quietly mourns his alcoholic beverage. 

“You should’ve called. Everyone’s been worried sick about you.” Debbie continues, depositing a bagel in front of him. “Even Jennifer was trying to get a hold of you.”

“Why?” Brian mutters, pushing a hand through his hair. It looks like shit, but he can’t find it in him to care as much as usual. 

“You’re going to speak at the funeral.” Debbie explains, her voice faltering a little at the word. 

Brian scoffs bitterly. “The fuck I will.” 

Debibit hits him again, this time with a pile of napkins. “You know what you were to that kid, and you’re going to say a few damn nice things about Sunshine!” 

Her voice breaks at the nickname, and she sets down her tray to rub a hand over her face. 

Brian feels bad for her. He feels bad for himself. “I’m not speaking. I’ve got nothing to say to them. Any of them.” 

“What are you going to do?” She demands weakly, wiping tears from her eyes. “Move on, forget about it? Forget about him?” 

Brian closes his eyes. “I don’t know, Deb.” 

She sniffles, picks up her tray, and shakes her head. “I do. I know you.” 

She departs, and even his coffee doesn’t make him feel any better. 

\----

Nine days later on a Tuesday, Justin Taylor’s funeral occurs. 

Everybody shows up, so Brian’s told two days after by Emmett, who seems to be the only person speaking to him at the moment. 

He only sees the rest of his friends from a distance, between blowjobs at Babylon when he stumbles out of the back room just long enough to drag someone else in. 

It was a closed-casket service, given the general appearance of being bashed in the head. 

(He still can’t rid himself of the image; Justin’s almost-lifeless body lying limp in his arms, terrifyingly still while Chris Hobbs winces just feet away, alive and somewhat well while Justin bleeds out on the unforgiving concrete.)

In Emmett’s words; “The place was so beautiful, Brian. There were white roses everywhere, and the picture they used was _so_ handsome.” The light smile fades from Emmett’s face, and he takes another bite of his breakfast before he continues. “Someone had hung up all of his drawings. They were gorgeous. I had no idea he was so talented, Bri. There were some even set in the diner. Of us.” 

Emmett trails off, and Brian takes another sip from his shockingly bitter coffee. “Who spoke?” 

“Just Daphne and his mother. It was very sweet, but.” 

_But it would’ve been better with you,_ Emmett doesn’t say. 

He’s very wrong. 

\----

Chris Hobbs is sentenced. Rather than the average time to serve for manslaughter, which Brian learns from Melanie is a minimum of twelve months, he receives nine months and some community service. 

Four things are broken in Brian’s loft, and he isn’t sorry when he hears about the judge’s toilet seat issues. 

\----

Two weeks pass, and Brian can’t find it in him to stop wearing the scarf. 

\----

A total of four weeks After Justin, Brian’s thrown himself into the deepest depths of Babylon, frequenting it until they kick him out in the early morning. 

He’s there one night, trying to pick up on some brunette, when he feels a hand settle on his arm and drags him out of the club and into the street. 

Michael. 

Brian smiles easily and slings an arm around Michael’s shoulders. He’s drunk. “Hey, Mikey, long time no see.” 

“Yeah, wonder why.” The other murmurs, shaking off Brian’s arm. “Get off of me. When was the last time you were home?” 

Brian pauses, his eyes going cloudy for a moment before clearing somewhat. He doesn’t look quite as easy.

“It’s been a while.” 

Michael looks disappointed. “Tell me where your car is, I’m gonna drive you home.” 

“The Jeep’s not here.” 

Michael gives him a strange look. “Where is it?” 

“The parking lot.” 

“Jesus, Bri.” 

“I can’t go back.” 

Michael heaves a heavy sigh. “You’re going to have to. You can’t just leave your car there.” 

“I’m not even sure I locked the doors.” Brian says in sudden realization. “Maybe someone stole it.” 

He partially hopes that somebody did. The Jeep reminds him too much of Justin. He remembers one of the last days he’d drove him to school, when Justin has teased and taunted him. 

_”You love me, so much!”_ He’d said triumphantly, before Brian promptly kicked him out of the car. 

He doesn’t want to remember that. He really doesn’t. 

\----

Brian walks through the parking garage with his hands in his pockets two days later. 

He hates it. 

He tries to avoid the looking at it, he really does, but he can’t help but glance down at the rust-colored stain still lying on the ground as if it were innocent. 

It makes him cringe, and he regrets bringing his eyes towards the place. 

His car isn’t locked, and as such has been stripped of four CDs, a leather jacket, and a few condoms. 

He can’t find it in him to care much. 

\----

It’s been two months, and Brian can’t quite get Justin’s voice out of his head. 

He hears him when he’s just woken up, hears it in his car, in the diner. 

He hears it in Babylon, while he’s trying to pick up on strangers who all want a piece of _the_ Brian Kinney. 

And then one day, he sees him. 

He’s trying to pick up on a particularly gorgeous man, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and he blinks. 

When his eyes open he sees not the beautiful stranger anymore, but Justin. 

He sees _his_ Justin, beneath the glowing lights and pounding music of Babylon, his grin playful and knowing. 

 

He knew. He knew he had the man wrapped around his finger before Brian had even considered it.

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen to the ground until the nameless blond is looking down at him, asking him what he’s on for the second time. 

Brian pushes him away and climbs to his feet, stumbling off of the dance floor and eventually out the door. 

Contrary to popular belief he isn’t drunk, and he gets into his car and drives. 

\----

He isn’t sure where he’s going until he’s there. 

He knows where to go thanks to Debbie, who purposefully gave him the information three days ago with a pointed look on her face. He’s never visited, but he’d filed the plot number in the back of his mind for no reason in particular. 

He reaches the plot and feels immeasurably sad. The young always get a gravestone instead of a plaque. 

_Justin Taylor_

_1983 - 2000_

_Beloved friend, son, and artist._

It’s bullshit. All of it. Justin deserves something a little more personal on his eternal death rock. 

He almost falls to his knees across the stone, before realizing that he doesn’t want to look at it. He shuffles until he’s leaning against the stone, back to Justin’s memorial. 

“Hey, Justin,” He murmurs, and feels absolutely ridiculous. He’d never believed in the dead being able to hear him, but some part of him now hopes that Justin will. 

“I know I haven’t been . . . the best. At anything. Especially with you.” He pauses, pulling his knees to his chest and feeling pathetically like a child. 

“I’ve got so much to say to you, Justin. And now all I can do is sit next to your grave and hope that you can hear me.” 

A passing thought: Perhaps his dead people can’t hear him because they’re all in hell. 

But Justin’s not. He can’t be.

“I’m sorry,” he admits, leaning his head against his knees. “I am so, _so_ sorry. You have, _no idea_ , how sorry I am. For everything. Especially this.” 

He taps the stone with a finger behind him. This was his fault, no matter who wanted to tell him it wasn’t. “I’m sorry about forgetting you, and taking you for granted. I’m so sorry that I couldn’t love you the same way that you loved me, which was _so much,_ Justin. You loved me, way more than anybody else ever bothered to.” 

Leaning his head back to look at the stars, he laughs bitterly. It’s not real, and the curve of his lip quickly fades. “And the thing is, Justin, you were right. I do love you.” 

He feels stupid saying it out loud, but he has to. He has to give himself some sort of consolation. Some sort of closure. 

“I’ve loved you the day I brought you home, and I’ve loved you ever since.” He wipes at his eyes. He can’t cry. He’s Brian Kinney. Brian Kinney doesn’t cry. 

But Justin’s always been the exception. 

He pushes a hand through his hair in some attempt to busy himself. “I remember, that night when we were in the parking lot, the way you smiled. Your smile was always perfect, but this time it was so bright. And then I knew why Debbie called you Sunshine.” 

Brian shakes his head softly, and he doesn’t realize that his breaths are shaky until they _are,_ and empty sobs fill the silence of the graveyard. 

He finds his hands clutched around the headstone, as if the stone would remarkably turn back to skin and Justin’s blue eyes would open from the engraved words on its front. 

No miracles occur.

He doesn’t want to let go. 

He does, somehow, untangles himself from the stone to stand and face whatever’s left of Justin Taylor. 

Out of his pocket he tugs the white silk scarf, ever-stained with blood and tears. 

Brian holds it for a long minute before gently setting it down, at the very head of Justin’s only tangible memory. 

“Goodbye, Justin.” He murmurs, straightening up. 

He goes, and doesn’t look back again.


End file.
